


Owning

by mona1347, poisontaster



Series: Sex Pollen [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domination, Face-Fucking, Facials, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, Submission, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-01
Updated: 2006-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"This is Sam unfiltered and Dean is both surprised and unsurprised to see how deep the darkness goes."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean

Dean knows he's a little fucked up when it comes to Sam.

Okay, that's a total lie.

He knows he's _completely_ fucked up when it comes to Sam, but he doesn't honestly know how it could have gone any other way. Not when the two of them fit together like gears meshing, like the smooth revolution of a bullet chambering, like gasoline and fire. Powerful. Deadly. Explosive.

None of which explains why he's about to stroke out and come from the thrusting pressure of Sam's cock over his tongue.

It's too fast and too hard; he's gagging on it, hot tears burning their way out of his eyes and down his cheeks, filling his open mouth with a secondary salt-bitter taste.

But he likes it.

Okay. That's a lie too.

He loves it.

Because it's _Sam_. Because Sam, who is so gentle and careful with everyone and every fucking thing is holding Dean's head in place between his enormous palms and ruthlessly shoving and pushing and thrusting down Dean's throat. Because Sam knows he can take it. Because Sam knows he _will_ take it.

Sam's just taking his pleasure. _Taking_ from Dean. Taking something Dean can give. Willingly, oh God, so willingly given to Sam.

Because Sam _knows_ he loves it. He's giving and thrusting and clutching and Dean can't, in any universe, be expected to retain higher brain function right now. He simply cannot be expected to think about how Sam is essentially _drugged_ or how wrong this is beyond the delicious shiver of _"wrong, bad, hot"_ that rockets from the base of his spine up through his neck and into what's left of his brain.

So he just tilts his head that last little bit, opens his throat and opens his eyes, to see Sam looking down at him, sweaty and flushed, hair hanging in his face.

Sam's smiling. It's not friendly.

It's not his "trust me" smile. Not even his wicked "I'll glue you to something" smile. It's predatory and fierce, a smile that promises pain exquisite beyond measure.

And Dean would like to blame this on the pollen, on those stupid taffy-striped flowers. But he can't escape the fact that Sam's the only one who's _dosed_ like this. That Dean doesn't have any excuse. He'd like to say he's not _THIS_ fucked up, this needy, to let Sam just fuck him without consideration of recourse, but Dean knows his own lies, owns them, even when he's just telling them to himself. He wants this. He wants this so bad he thinks he could burst from just this, from Sam just _raping_ his mouth and thumbing the tears from his eyes while smiling that same cock-eyed smile.

 _Please_ , he thinks, and fumbles for the button and zipper of his jeans. _Oh God, please, Sam..._

He doesn't know what he's asking for. _Stop. Don't stop. I can't. Please, God, more…_

His cock is halfway through the slit of his boxers when Sam speaks, voice thick and guttural, almost unrecognizable with lust. "No. It's mine. _You're_ mine. You don't get to touch. Not until I tell you. Not until I _let_ you."

Dean stops. Doesn't even think about it, hands balling to fists. The fabric of Dean's jeans is open and rubs against him as he circles his hips now, providing just enough friction to be even more torture than before.

Dean groans, helpless, fevered, and Sam's head falls back, his hands tightening so much Dean expects to find fingertip-shaped indentations in his skull, his jaw later on. His cock slides faster, lubricated on Dean's helpless salivation.

Sam's moaning almost continuously now. Moaning shapes and sounds like Dean's name, like litanies of praise to Dean's mouth and Dean feels....cherished. Used. Wanted.

Sam's hand skims Dean's face, his thumb slips into Dean's stretched mouth, sliding between Dean's teeth and the heated length of his own cock, an entirely new and unexpected dimension of feeling. "C'mon baby," Sam croons, pistoning in hard, flat cracks of his hips. The smell of him surrounds Dean, hot, musky, sexual beyond measure.

"You want me to touch you, yeah?" Sam's blinking hard, like he can't quite keep Dean in focus. "I bet you're hard, so fucking hard for it. You love me fucking your mouth. Don't you?"

Dean's eyes fall closed, and his neck relaxes back; a wordless _"Yes...yes...more"_. Surrender. His hands open.

Dean's crying now. Full on weeping, because it's _Too Much_. It hurts and it's wonderful and he doesn't know how to separate them or even if they should be.

It's just _Sam_. Giving to Sam. Being needed by Sam. Being useful, pleasuring Sam. And it's holy. It's sacred. It's ecstasy, physical and spiritual ecstasy to be _for_ Sam this way. Belonging. Being his.

Sam inhales sharply, a sound Dean knows balls to bone from two decades of close quarters and teenage jerk-off sessions, the sound Sam makes right before he comes. Dean opens his eyes, wanting to see it. Wanting to see Sam's face change and shift, becoming something sublime and beyond human.

Then suddenly, Sam is pulling away, pushing Dean back, his heavy cock slipping wetly from Dean's lips, connected by thick strings of spit and pre-come.

Dean is dazed, frozen, iced by the sudden fear that he's _displeased_ Sam, that he hasn't been good enough, hasn't sucked hard enough, skillfully enough.

 _I can do it_ , he thinks, whining out loud in a way that would totally shame him if it didn't mean he might have Sam in him, down him again. _I can...oh God, please let me. I'll do it right..._

But then Sam steps forward, grips his jaw inflexibly, thumb and forefinger holding Dean's mouth open. He moves the hand up to grip the hair on the back of Dean's head, tilting his face back. Sam's dark eyes seem to burn.

With the other hand, Sam strokes his dick; one single, hard, squeezing slide over spit-wet flesh and then he's coming. Hot/wet/salt splatters on Dean's lips, over his cheeks, his nose. Dean puts his tongue out, lapping for every droplet he can claim.

Each pulse is a brand. _Mine, Mine, You Are Mine._

It stings in his eyes worse than the tears, clings to his eyelashes, rendering Sam in blurry rainbows and Dean can't hold on anymore. It's all pain and pleasure and fluid. Tears and come and shared blood.

_Yours, God, yes, yours forever always was yes. Anything. I'd do anything for you Sammy... Just ask. Just take. Anything…_

"It's okay," Sam whispers roughly, lovingly, caressing Dean's cheek with one hand, and between that and Sam's come dripping down his face Dean _keens_ , head flinging back as he spurts all over himself, without being touched, without even making it all the way out of his pants.

He feels it soaking into his boxers, his jeans. His knees are inadequate to hold him. Dean collapses. Can't even throw out a hand to catch himself, a panting, scrambled, nerveless bundle of twitching flesh. But Sam catches him, holds him against that broad beating chest.

Sam thrusts a hand into the slit of Dean's boxers and plays with Dean's sensitized flesh. Dean sobs against the skin of Sam's neck. Too much. Too much. And yet he wouldn't--couldn't--deny Sam anything. Nothing he wouldn't do. Nothing he wouldn't let Sam take. Have.

Sam's hand comes out smeared and slick with Dean's semen and he brings his fingers to Dean's lips, curving and pushing them into Dean's slack mouth. "Come on, baby. Suck. Taste yourself."

Dean can't do more than lick weakly, still racked with shuddering sobs. His eyes burn with salt-semen tears and Sam scruffs his free hand through Dean's hair, raising goosebumps because it feels so fucking good. Right.

"You were so good, Dean. Mmm. So good. Yeah. C'mon. Lick it clean. Love to watch your tongue."

Dean does. He just...does. Because it's Sam. And that...that's everything.

Because Sam's still saying shattering things like, "Yeah. You did so good. You're so good, Dean. I loved it. Such a good boy...."

Sam stretches out next to him on the floor, head pillowed on his arm. His smile is back to the gentle one, the one that shreds Dean because he knows how much Sam _loves_ him. Him. Dean.

"C'mere," Sam says, pulling Dean close.

Dean knows it's only a matter of very little time before Sam will start again. He can practically see the golden pollen filtering steadily through Sam's veins, out into the capillaries to infuse his skin... Dean knows it's only a matter of time before they start again.

Dean doesn't mind. Even fagged out, exhausted and fucked...he's kind of looking forward to it.

Okay, that's a total lie.

"You're always gonna be mine, right?" Sam says, sounding much less sleepy than he should.

Dean nods, hiding his face in Sam's neck. He's not just looking forward to it. He's going to love every fucking second.

Sam rolls toward him, the scent of flowers and sex rising even higher in the air around them, grinds his swiftly hardening cock (again, oh God, impossible) against Dean's hip.

"Good. Cause we're not done yet."


	2. Sam

Dean's mouth.

Fuck.

Dean's mouth is just an invitation to sin. No, not even an invite. More like an arrest and sustained detention. And right now? Sam's so fucked up, humming and smoldering inside his skin, he doesn't even care _how_ he gets it, just that he does.

Sam's buzzing, drugged and hot and itching all over like the molecules of his skin will just melt apart, de-ionize and dissolve his flesh into nothing if he doesn't have…if he doesn't get…

Before Sam knows it, Dean's on his knees, whimpering and mewling and Sam's cock thrusts in, parting those candy-pink lips; girl-pretty, cocksucker lips and that word starts playing on a loop in Sam's fevered brain.

Cocksucker. His beautiful, sexy, eager cocksucker. His Dean.

His.

Sam needs to _own_ Dean's mouth, to take it, have it as his and Dean's just _letting_ him. Letting him do all of this. Dean just let Sam manhandle him across the room, let him touch and rub up on him. He'd do _anything_ Sam wanted, loose and pliant and slutty. Willing. So fucking _willing_. And that's a way better high than the pollen.

Sam doesn't remember shoving Dean off the bed, rolling him up and over and onto his knees by a one-handed grip in his hair but he remembers the sound Dean made when he did it. Needy and high and protesting and Sam knows, somewhere very far in the back of his mind, that Dean wants this too.

Sam loses coherent thought entirely at that and it's only _mouth, suck me, take you, inside, wet_ as he grabs hold of Dean's too-short hair with desperate fingers, holds his head still and takes the first real thrust.

Sam means to stop, to hold back, hold on and pull away and say "Dean? Are you...?" but he doesn't. He _means_ to but he can't when he feels Dean sucking on him, the vibrating moan that Dean lets loose when Sam tugs and pulls and starts to thrust harder. Sam feels too tight in his skin, like the haze of gold that flutters at the edge of his vision is the only thing holding him together.

This can't be the first time Dean's had a dick in his mouth. He's too good, sucks just right and doesn't scrape his teeth once, knows to drool a little and use his tongue in firm lapping strokes on the underside.

Sam is suddenly overwhelmed with the need to find whoever belongs to whatever cocks have been inside this mouth. Dean's mouth, the lips and tongue and palate that belong to _him_ , to Sam. Only him, forever. He wants to find anyone else who's ever had this and beat them into a sticky, twitching pile with his bare hands.

And more than that, Sam wants to scrub the taste of them out of Dean's slutty mouth -- _his_ slut. He wants to wash it away in salty rivers of his own come, wants to fuck Dean's mouth raw until between blood and semen Dean can't think, taste or remember anyone but _him_. Until Dean _understands_.

Sam feels sudden panic well up in his chest, somehow far away and screamingly unimportant, but he gasps and tries, tries to shake and blink the golden flowery haze of _sex, now, Dean_ from his brain. He tears his eyes from Dean's mouth stretched tight around him in a perfect circle of want and looks into Dean's tear-filled eyes. Sam wants to touch those tears, see if they're as beautifully crystalline against his fingertips as they look on Dean's cheeks. And Dean's _His_ so he does, strokes them away, feels the tickling brush of Dean's lashes against the pad of his thumb but…

Tears. He's crying. _Dean's_ crying, oh God, Sam has to stop, he has to _stop_ …

But then Dean makes the sweetest, neediest noise Sam's ever heard and he's grappling at the fastenings of his own jeans and it hits Sam like a two by four to his lizard brain that _Dean wants this_. Dean's _getting off_ on this. And that's it -- any control Sam could ever _pretend_ to have shatters apart against the drowning ocean of the pollen and Dean's acquiescence.

He wants to watch Dean stroke himself, wants to let him work his fingers in through his fly like he's desperately trying to do, wants to hear, to _feel_ those needy moans escalate around his cock but he wants Dean to _keep wanting_ more than any of that.

So Sam growls, "No." Dean stops, he fucking stops on a dime because Sam said so. Sam feels his cock stretch longer, swell harder, just watching it happen. "It's mine. _You're_ mine. You don't get to touch. Not until I tell you. Not until I _let_ you."

Dean – yes that moan, that exact whimper – sucks so hard and takes Sam so deep, pulls on him with the friction and heat of his mouth like Sam's cock has the fucking _antidote_ in it. His narrow hips working, working against nothing, against the saturated air, against the rough not-enough friction of his own jeans.

Sam's head falls back. Too much. Too good. _Dean_. His hips piston, shove in and yank back out, his grip on Dean's face will leave bruises, the tightening hand in Dean's hair is pulling, hurting as Dean's tongue works harder and faster, whimpering with each yank and tug, still so willing to be wanted, needed, used this way.

"C'mon baby," Sam can't keep his eyes open, can't keep watching so he shoves one tear-salted thumb into Dean's mouth alongside his cock. To feel him, feel _them_ , feel his dick slide and rub against the soft firmness of Dean's completely fucking illegal mouth.

Dean makes another impossible, indescribable, muffled sound and Sam says, "You want me to touch you, yeah? I bet you're hard, so fucking hard for it. You love me fucking your mouth. Don't you?"

He struggles to keep his eyes open and it's worth it when Dean's eyes fall closed, when all the muscles of his neck go limp against Sam's controlling hands and he's so pliable, surrendering, tears streaming like blood down his flushed face.

Sam has to come, has to come _right now_ before he breaks Dean's goddamn jaw fucking his mouth. Before he fucks them both bloody and broken. Fucks them past this insanity into something irrevocable, irreparable. Because Dean is _his_ , but Dean is also still _Dean_.

With a Herculean effort, Sam rears back and pushes Dean down, away, so that he tips and falls back onto his ass. He looks shattered, debauched and terrified. Hard cock half-out of his pants and mouth open and swollen; he looks up at Sam like he's done something wrong and no, no, Sam will not come _rightthissecond_. No. Not until he can, until Dean…

He steps forward with one hand tight around the base of his cock and grabs Dean's chin with the other, looks into his startled, helpless eyes and wants to break him and remake him. Own him and protect him and make him feel. God, why can't they just make each other feel like this all the time? He pinches Dean's jaw between finger and thumb, opening him, wanting to see the inside of that sinful mouth, that perfect pink tongue.

Sam strokes his own cock, once, twice, and his hand moves over Dean's face, up and around to grip the short hair just above his neck.

Then one more stroke, one more hard, wet stroke and he comes like dying. Like fire and ice and pain and pleasure sizzling and merging into unspeakable sensation to the sight of Dean's face, painted in his come.

Marked.

"It's okay," Sam pants out, looking down at the destroyed look on Dean's face and he's going to say, _It's because it's you. Because of how much…_ But then Dean comes too, sudden and sharp, before Sam can do more than caress his wet cheek, and collapses forward like the strings have been cut.

Dean would've gotten some serious rug burn on his face but Sam is there to catch him and sink them gently down onto the floor. He's saying filthy hot things into Dean's ear but he can't _not_ reach in and touch Dean's cock, can't help but want to feel Dean's own burning slickness, evidence of his pleasure. Can't help but want to share this with Dean, make him understand that he, Sam, did this, that Sam made him feel this, gave him this. From his hand and his hand alone, forever.

Dean's red tongue licks up between Sam's fingers and Sam's own voice comes back into his ears slowly, soft and soothing his still-shaking brother. "Yeah. You did so good. You're so good, Dean. I loved it. Such a good boy."

Sam wants to hold him, spread his whole body over and around Dean, cover and keep him until he can fuck him again. Sam pulls him close, crushes Dean's face against his neck and feels Dean's hot quick breath sob a little against his own humming skin.

Again, Sam needs to have him again. So much want. It fills the whole world. Red-orange and hazy and burning bright.

"You're always gonna be mine, right?" Because now that he's had it, had Dean, he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to get enough. If there _can_ be enough.

Dean nods against Sam's shoulder and the scrape of his stubble sends shudders over Sam's flank, down into his cock, stirring and hardening it again.

Sam rolls half on top of Dean, bodies fit close and warm, and breathes, "Good. Cause we're not done yet."

Nowhere near done.


End file.
